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Aearlinn	By : narcolinde Category: -Multi-Age > General Views: 8921 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Aearlinn - Aldobol Faer Charn

NOTE: remember as you read this chapter that italics always indicate mental thoughts and communications. That might make the latter half of the chapter easier to follow :)
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Late in the Night ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Elrond stumbled for perhaps the third time in as many hours, stifling a profane oath as he grappled with the current provocateur to inhibit his progress: an inordinately wild and rampant blackberry bramble that for some inexplicable reason was skewed across his path when elvish senses had indicated the way to be clear just about two strides back. The Lord of the Vale had long since lost patience, both furious and frustrated to be put through such trials all for the dubious privilege of attending one of King Thranduil's lavish, famous Merith Di'ylf (Fêtes Beneath the Branches). Renowned among the woodland people, both elf-kind and human, possibly known to the Beornings between the Carrock and the Gladden meres, and mayhap attended by folk from Laketown upon Long Lake in Erebor, but unimagined and unheard of in fair Imladris unless as the butt of some crude joke about savage, superstitious sylvans and their bizarre, barbaric rituals.

I haven't thought about them like that in many days. Elrond reminded himself and certainly could never picture Thranduil and elegant, majestically beautiful Rhûn'waew as primitive troglodytes.
They had tendered the invitation to the midnight gathering at the noon meal, where Elrond sat at table with his soon-to-be law parents, Galion the butler, Fennas the Elder, Erestor, Glorfindel, Lindir, and Elril Diorion. Of course the ancient Elf and his history had to be explained to the Imladrians and this occupied the diners' attention for a time. The famous healer was quite subdued and sorrowful through it all, weighed down by guilt over the effect his attempts to give aid had rendered among the sylvan people. Rhûn'waew noticed at once and with Elril openly in attendance she guessed the reason, incorrectly, but her concern was genuine. A swift glance at her husband was all the communication the couple required; Thranduil announced his plans for the night, collecting everyone's promise to attend while promising to banish the ill-feeling of his host once and for all.

That comment had prompted a few polite but uneasy chuckles from the Lord of Imladris and Elrond found it even less amusing now as he wrestled with the foliage. He broadened his stance to improve his balance and found that a vine had neatly wound about his ankle. "I have flint in my pocket," he hissed in ominous tones, tugging at the spines sunk deep in his fine silken robe. The threat produced no effect and his efforts proved futile. It did not help matters that the night was far advanced under a moonless sky and vision was sharply curtailed.

"Valar, now you are talking to the bushes." Erestor's scoffing words preceded him toward the subdued commotion of his kinsman's struggles. "If it was that simple any Elf would be able to command the trees. In your case, I'm not even sure Vilya's power would be sufficient to garner their obedience."

"Amusing, cousin, such witty and diverting repartee. Clever, erudite quips such as that are undoubtedly the reason you have such a lofty reputation as a formidable rhetorician," spat the Lord of the Valley.

He was in no mood for jesting, having already bruised his shin on a stump that for some reason had not been perceptible to keen elvish sonar, snagged his braided hair in a branch that swooped low even though there was absolutely no breeze, causing his mithril circlet to become hopelessly crooked, and razed a tear from elbow to wrist in the sleeve of his satin tunic due to catching all his weight against the incredibly rough bark of a tree trunk whilst trying to prevent himself a nasty turn of the ankle when he'd found a great root wrapped around the toe of his boot. Now his cloak was thoroughly ensnared in the thorny stems and in vain he sought to disentangle himself.

"Fine, my sincere apologies for trying to show you the lighter side of the situation. If you would but have patience, Elrond, I could help you," commented Erestor, equally irritable for having undergone several similar episodes of floral warfare. He nonetheless trudged on toward the shadowed figure thrashing amid the undergrowth.

"Nay, Erestor, remain where you are or you'll be …" Elrond's caution came too late, for with the very next step his worthy seneschal tripped and gave a startled shout as he toppled headlong into the aggressive prickles.

Erestor's ensuing howl of agonised indignation followed and was much louder than Elrond's, being that the unfortunate advisor was now face down amid the dense brush, thorns stabbing him in numerous sensitive places. Somehow, knowing his cousin's fate was so much worse made Elrond feel so very much better. With a grim, teeth-baring grin, a blasphemous obscenity, and a mighty jerk, he yanked his cape free, rending the plush velvet fabric with a resounding rip that almost echoed in the dark and silent woods.

"These are my own lands," fumed the mighty Lore-master, directing his offended countenance to the surrounding trees. "This is Imladris, not Greenwood; there is no King here, only me, Lord Elrond Peredhel. It is unconscionable for me to be hindered from free travel within the boundaries of the realm I rule. Let me pass!"

Well, of course there was no answer; not from the trees at any rate, and not only because Elrond did not know how to communicate with them. The scrubby wilds of oak, ash, pine, and maple simply refused to acknowledge him. True, his shouted words were not comprehensible to creatures lacking ears, but green things are adept at reading mood and sensing changes in energy. The quiet woods had no difficulty understanding that their tenant (let us not forget, the valley and its trees existed long before Elrond came along and established Imladris) was displeased and wanted them to stop getting in the way. They had their instructions, however, and while it was true that Thranduil had no right to command them, Legolas certainly did. He had kindly asked his beloved lilliputian hinterland to make his family feel at home by respecting all their wishes as though he, the sylvan Lord of Imladris, had given them personally.

As far the green inhabitants of Rivendell were concerned, a Wood Elven Lord, even one by bond, who was also a Prince, albeit from a distant forest, outranked just about everyone in the valley. Thus, though Legolas knew nothing of the plot, he unwittingly laid its very foundation. The orders of the King of the Woodland Realm were being followed exactly as given: 'see to it Lord Elrond does not arrive either too quickly or too easily.'

In any case, Elrond was answered by Glorfindel, who could not suppress a light laugh at Erestor's predicament as he came abreast of his colleagues. "I dare say if you would not try to go so swiftly in the dark no mishaps would follow. What is the rush?"

"I'm not rushing," protested Elrond, lending a hand to free his cousin as he spoke, "but I see no reason to make the journey longer than it needs to be. Wandering the night through the less manicured areas of the valley's landscape is more to Legolas' taste than mine. I am eager to reach the Wood Elves' enclave."

"My thanks, mellon, and I heartily agree," added Erestor. "I would have thought they would provide us with a guide," He gave an irritated sigh, surveying the numerous rips and runs wrought upon his stately garb.

"I imagine the Wood Elves would think it offensive to offer you safe conduct through your own lands," said Lindir, passing through the brambles effortlessly. Indeed, the tangled twigs recoiled and retreated to spare his gauzy party clothes any chance to snag or tear. He stopped beside Erestor and chuckled, picking a few leaves from his hair and robes, but the sound was neither mocking nor scornful. "Meleth, you've a scratch on your cheek. Come, let me clean that up."

"It is nothing, Melethen," Erestor replied in honeyed tones as he eagerly stepped closer, "but I would be grateful for your assistance among this undergrowth. Is there no way you can let the green things know I mean no harm to the Wood Elves, that we were invited to this gala?"

Before an answer was attempted, Lindir leaned in to soothe his love with a sweet caress of lips and tongue. Glorfindel and Elrond shared an astonished look between them as these endearments and intimacies were exchanged. Just a day ago the two had been at such severe odds that if Erestor entered a room wherein Lindir happened to be, one or the other would leave it. The Balrog-slayer and the Lore-master broke into smirking grins as they returned their regard to the minstrel and the Chief Advisor.

"Aye, I'll try but my word is no match for a command from Legolas," Lindir was saying, doing his best to remedy the tattered condition of Erestor's formal clothes.

"Why would Aearen want to make me suffer so?" demanded Elrond, his amusement forgotten. "Nay, this seems more like something his kinfolk would initiate. Fennas and Aras come at once to mind."

"You're forgetting that time in the glade when I first met Legolas," reminded Lindir. "He had the trees set against you then."

"That was during a difficult period for us and we were arguing," said Elrond. "We are getting along much better these days."

This induced Erestor to emit a contentious snort. "Really? Then why haven't you told him about the Elder's decree?"

"I will as soon as he gets back from the hunt with Faron."

"When will that be?" queried Lindir. "It can't be a good idea to be parted from him very long."

"He'll be at the feast this evening," assured Elrond, "though at first he planned to be gone three days. We discussed it and I convinced him to return tonight. In truth, I think he would have done so anyway but it is better for the decision to come from me. He didn't want Faron to think of him as weak or needy. Apparently, for sylvan's it is acceptable, even commendable, to defer to one's mate over concerns such as these, so his warrior's pride was not wounded."

"Legolas likes it when you give him orders," Glorfindel snickered.

Erestor laughed aloud. "You would know. For someone living so far from the Last Homely House, you manage to arrive at particularly opportune moments."

"Not amusing," Elrond scolded. "I think we should move on. Lindir, try to reason with the trees."
The others were quiet as he stepped aside to commune with the nearest oak, but after only a very short time the minstrel gave an discouraged sigh and removed his palms from the bark. "They will not heed me," he admitted with no small shame.

"Hah! You're out of favour with our woodland prince," jibed Glorfindel, "and the trees won't hear you until you make amends. Why haven't you done so? Could it be that you've been too busy repairing your relationship with Erestor?" he teased.

"Glorfindel, that isn't any of your business," the seneschal announced, "but if you must know, I am formally courting Lindir."

"Is this true?" Elrond gasped out, grinning with real joy to hear it. He was beyond pleased to hope the relationship could become more than a casual affair.

"I am proud to confirm it." Lindir tossed his head and plucked a series of coyly inviting notes upon the strings, sending Erestor a sidelong, glancing grin.

"Congratulations, mellon vell," enthused Glorfindel, reaching over to clap a hand upon the seneschal's shoulder. "Mayhap you'll be less unbearably testy and mercurial."

"I am neither of those things," frowned Erestor. "Exacting and particular, yes, but always in control."

"Really, cousin?" Elrond's tone was rife with ribald humour. "Always in control? If so you are missing out, I assure you."

Now it was Lindir's turn to laugh heartily and Erestor was glad for the dark that hid his scarlet blush. He stuttered through an inept denial that only served to reinforce the notion and provide further amusement for his fellows. His new lover came to his defence at last.

"Nay, we are equals now in all things, are we not Melethen?" crooned Lindir, passing his fingers over the seneschal's glossy black hair instead of the harp strings.

"Aye, though I can never equal your beauty, grace, and stamina, nor am I ashamed to admit it," answered Erestor to a chorus of knowing plaudits and guffaws. Then he became serious and pulled his minstrel closer. "I have undertaken to restore a most rare, most precious, most fragile jewel among gems."

"I'm glad there's no need for me to remind you of that fact," said Elrond, "or the care to exercise in the endeavour."
"Nay, none whatsoever," Erestor smiled. Rather than being angry to receive such a warning, he pulled Lindir's fingers from his hair, raising them to his lips to press a kiss upon them. "I am honoured to be given the chance to undertake this task and swear only death could cause me to fail."

"Let us not speak of such dread consequences," Lindir shivered. "This is to be a night of revelry."

"You know something of these Merith Di'ylf?" asked Glorfindel. "I did not realise you had ever travelled to Thranduil's court. You certainly never mentioned it."

"I haven't," replied the harper, "but beyond my happy reconciliation with Erestor, other things have commanded my attention. I felt it best to stay out of Legolas' sight and mind for a time and have been among the sylvan folk quite a bit, learning of the customs regarding the binding ceremony, practising with their musicians, making friends among my distant kin. Thus, these feasts were explained in detail."

"Legolas does not hold anything against you, mellonen," assured Elrond. "He's had other worries and has forgotten all about your alleged betrayal."

"I'm glad to hear it," smiled Lindir. "I'll speak to him tomorrow and offer my humble apologies, for at last I've something to present as a token of peace and friendship."

"What is it?" asked Erestor, "and were you able to gather that list for me?"

"What list?" Elrond wanted to know. "I am pleased you two are getting along so well but if you are plotting something I want to be informed before hand. I don't want anymore surprises for the time being. In fact, I think I'd be happy not to face anything unexpected until after Tinu Mín is born."

"Valar, when are you going to come up with a name?" Erestor deftly diverted the conversation, for the purpose of the list was, he'd just remembered, supposed to be a surprise as much for Elrond as for Legolas. "You can't keep calling him 'Our Little Star' forever."

"It is a sylvan tradition," expounded Lindir. "Custom demands that the child's true names not be spoken aloud until Arad Estol. This little one is going to have quite an impressive list of titles to get through when that day comes. We'll all wish we could still just call him Tinu Mín."

"No one is to call him Tinu Mín save Legolas and me," warned Elrond.

"Well, then what name should we use?" grumbled Erestor.

"We could call him Elrondion," suggested Glorfindel.

"Or Legolasion," giggled Lindir. "Lindi-dithen has a nice ring to it."

"No, no, it has to have the 'star' element in it," Erestor joined in. "What about El'aladh? Perhaps Galadhel sounds better or Lassel would do."

"Yes, I like Galadhel. Eleryndhor isn't bad, either," agreed Lindir.

"In that case, Eldaur is easier to say," posited the Balrog-slayer.

"This is not amusing," growled Elrond. "Calling my son 'Woodland Star', 'Tree Star', or 'Leaf Star' is unacceptable. Choosing a name is a very serious business for Wood Elves."

"Oh, I can tell," snickered Glorfindel. "Such lofty names for the royal family: 'Aras', 'Galbreth', 'Legolas', and Rhûn'waew' clearly indicate the esteemed and noble linage of these folk."

"Someone whose name is based solely on the colour of his hair should not be so quick to mock others," stated Elrond.

"That is hardly my fault," protested the abashed warrior.

"And as for you, Erestor, yours is an appellation that can be interpreted any number of ways without ever really establishing what it means."

"It was chosen to inspire a sense of menace and mystery," countered the seneschal with haughty resentment.

"Enough," soothed Lindir before Elrond could comment unfavourably on his assumed name. "We'll just call the babe Ernilen. He is Greenwood's youngest prince, after all, and Imladris' very first."

"You're forgetting Elladan and Elrohir," Erestor prompted gently.

"Nay, I'm not. They are not princes for Elrond is no king," explained the minstrel patiently.

"Shouldn't we move on?" groaned the exasperated Lord of Imladris.

To this they all agreed and the party resumed the march. Some of Lindir's pleas must have been received, or the trees had new instructions from the Woodland King, for the path was once again amenable to easy passage, or as amenable as undomesticated scrubland can be. There were no more mishaps and before long the four Elves could discern the faint beauty of sylvan voices singing amid the trees. There was as yet no other sign of the elusive Wood Elves but the sound made them all smile and they hurried in its general direction.

Thranduil's folk had chosen that northern most location furthest from the civilised boundaries of Elrond's estate and so far away from Imladris' fair city that it was impossible to glimpse the structures and streets, not even from the tops of the tallest trees. Here, the land rose abruptly in steep cliffs as Hithaeglir loomed so close it seemed one might ascend right to the High Pass from this point. Yet the craggy highlands held within them deep ravines, defiles, and hanging valleys with vistas of serene, if somewhat austere, beauty. In these veiled dells grew the evergreens and hearty hardwoods partial to a cooler climate and in one such vale the Wood Elves made their temporary homes, for the area most resembled the forest they'd left behind. Still, one would have to know what to look for to realise the land was inhabited by anything other than wild game. The four travellers slowed, pausing on the ridge above the shadowed canyon from which the singing arose, for the way down was treacherous and lacked any recognisable path. Even Lindir was expecting guards to present themselves and escort the guests the remaining distance.

"Elo!" cried Glorfindel, pointing to the right.

The others followed his finger and there, just visible amid the shadows collected between the trunks, was a faint, shimmering light. There was no doubt this was a fire of some sort and seemed to indicate the place of the feast. No sooner had they arrived at this notion than the flames blazed high as if in welcome. Now they could make out silhouetted fingers dancing around the orange light. Singing and laughter reached their ears and the four friends shared wide grins with one another, though the dark was so deep they almost had to imagine they could see them. All at once a fair voice called from afar, asking for Lindir to hurry and join them for his harp was silent and that was not pleasing to anyone present.

"Tolel, tolel!" he laughed and bolted away toward the bonfire, leaping over stones and dodging round trees, leaving his fellows behind.

"Wait, Melethen!" implored Erestor and started after him. He could see Lindir bounding through the woods, his figure diminishing as the distance increased, and just at the moment when he must surely have reached the sylvans all the lights went out. As if it had never been, the fire was extinguished. No smoke, no scent of smouldering wood, no lingering aroma of damp, doused kindling met his senses. The seneschal stopped in his tracks and stared blindly into the dark. "Lindir?"

"What is this devilry?" Glorfindel murmured in startlement. Now that the light was gone, the woods seemed even blacker than before.

"I know not," complained Elrond. Though he realised it must be a game of some kind, he shivered. The place had gone absolutely silent yet conversely was filled with an intimidating presence, like a thousand eyes watching him and weighing his worth. He frowned and squared his shoulders; these were still his lands. "King Thranduil will not permit Lindir to come to any harm. Let us keep moving; no doubt the fire will be re-lit."

"Aye, mayhap our eager singer trampled right through it," laughed Glorfindel, but there was a forced, uneasy quality to the merry sound.

Erestor said nothing but took the lead, moving steadily toward the place he'd last seen his lover. At least, he thought he was going the right way. After a few tense minutes, however, a new spark ignited and a yellow gleam grew in an entirely different location. The fire now seemed to the south of his position and much higher up on the walls of the secluded dale. As before, the bonfire grew until the wavering, gyrating shapes of dancing Elves could be glimpsed cavorting around it and the joyful notes of harps and flutes and drums drifted through the air. Laughter and song rose and swelled and rolled across the dark expanse between him and the light, and Erestor was sure he could make out Lindir's fair voice amid the others, calling for him. With a smile he altered his course and set forth at a quicker pace.

"Valar, you gave my heart a chill, Meleth," he laughed, breaking into a run as he traversed the rugged terrain. The path didn't seem so hard to follow anymore despite the steep incline. Several shadowed and featureless heads turned at his approach and he was vaguely aware of Elrond stumbling along far behind him, begging him to slow down and wait. He saw no reason to follow that command, however, for just then he spied Lindir across the flames. Erestor raced forward and with a mighty leap cleared the last barrier of brambles, landing right beside the fire. The very instant his feet felt the ground, every tongue, every spark, every flickering ember died.

"Ai! Where is he now, Glorfindel?" called Elrond, confused and disoriented by the abrupt loss of light. He floundered to a halt and waited for his Master-at-Arms to join him.

"Elrond, over here," cried the Balrog-slayer, looking over his shoulder to the point where he thought he'd last spied his Lord. A faint rustling arose.

"Where?" Elrond shouted.

"Here! Over here!"

"I can't see you, mellon, keep talking." Slowly he started toward the disembodied voice.

"This way!" someone called and it did sound like it might be Glorfindel, though the words were surely too far away to be his and skewed off to the east this time.

"Over here, Elrond," spoke another Elf, this time much closer so that the Lord of the valley fairly whirled on his heels, hands groping the empty black air in vain.

"Glorfindel?" he yelled.

"Aye, here, mellon."

That was definitely him yet surely they could not have become separated by so much land in so short a span. When Elrond turned he could see the re-born warrior outlined against the blazing glare of another distant fire ring, arm uplifted in invitation.

"Wait there, I am on the move." He trotted quickly toward the Balrog-slayer, grimacing and picking up speed as he noticed the distance between them increasing instead of lessening. "No, Glorfindel, stand and wait for me there!" he cried, an edge of panic rippling through the syllables. The Wood Elves were systematically dividing their guests one from another, for what purpose he could not divine. Whatever that purpose was, Elrond did not want to be left alone in the darkened woods. "Saes, daro!"

The plea was denied. Glorfindel stepped full into the light and turned to Elrond, revealing that he was not the Balrog-slayer at all but one of Legolas' Sindarin cousins. The next second, every hint of illumination disappeared and all sound ceased. Elrond froze where he was, heart pounding and lungs heaving more from dread than the night's exertions. "Glorfindel? Can you hear me, mellon?" The only reply was his own echo tripping over the cliffs in mocking parody, his fear bluntly apparent.

Elrond remained motionless staring into the endless dark. He was of course under the trees by now and not even the faint glimmer of star-shine gave him relief from the perpetual gloom. The remnant impression of colour left upon his retinas by the firelight only made it worse, distracting him from attuning to other stimuli until the last blob of garish green and yellow faded. Once it did, he was reassured; this was not nearly so dark as the cave into which he and Elros had fled when they were children trying to escape capture by the sons of Feänaro. Compared to that, this was not darkness at all and he could bear it easily. He drew and released a deep breath to calm his heart and in that same instant Aearen's call began chiming through his soul. Real relief swept away the last lingering doubts and fears. Why should he be afraid? He'd been invited to the festivities; indeed, the whole celebration was in his honour. He shook his head, hands upon his hips, and laughed aloud at his childish response to this harmless jest.

"I'm a bit beyond the age for a round of Hide and Seek," he announced to the silence. "I'm not moving a mite until I know where I'm going and how to get there."

Nothing returned and his smile slipped just a little. He couldn't feel his mate's call any longer, which was not surprising as Legolas had only sent it forth as a sign that he would soon be returning from the hunt. The revered healer had no means to send a call himself, had no way to let his beloved know this was not a pleasant situation and he really, truly wanted him there as fast as possible. Aearen had no reason to imagine, nor any way to learn, that something was wrong. Or does he? Elrond shook his head. No, Legolas could not suspect. The idea that the joke might be something else entirely would not remain in his subconscious where it had been growing and gaining weight. There was ample reason for Legolas' kin to be angry and it made sense that they might wait until the young prince was otherwise engaged before acting on it.

Which left Elrond with the unnerving little problem of figuring out what might come next. Was it a prank or was it something more? His cohorts had vanished and while he couldn't be certain surely the woodland King wouldn't permit them to be injured or forcefully detained. He wondered briefly if they were part of the plot but discarded that idea. Lindir might go along but he couldn't imagine Erestor and Glorfindel approving such pointless and irritating subterfuge. What should he do? It wasn't in him to cower back and just wait for his adversaries to attack. Not that Thranduil's people would actually seek to hunt him down, but his senses were all on high alert. No, these were his lands; he was Lord here. He would move forward in the direction of the last fire and hope the Wood Elves would reveal themselves. As soon as he encountered one, he would insist on being taken to the King.

With a grim smile he strode forward, pleased to have a plan to follow even if it was so loosely formulated. Even on that dreadful day so long ago, he and Elros had made a plan and carried it out, waiting to ambush whoever came through the opening of the cavern. Aye, you're bold enough when you have someone to depend on. In spite of himself, Elrond drew a sharp breath and halted, heart lurching. He didn't like that voice; he didn't like the Elf who used it, and he especially didn't like remembering what had initially brought this alter-ego forth. He shook himself and started moving, determined to have action; action enough to silence that voice.

Having no clear notion of which way to go, nor any desire to stop and ponder it, his feet somehow brought him within smelling distance of one of the defunct bonfires. Elrond made for it quickly, reaching the broad ring of stones surrounding the fire pit by tripping on them and falling into the charred remains of the brief blaze. He gave an abbreviated cry but landed unharmed amid a warm, soft cloud of white fluffy ash. He pushed to hands and knees and coughed, then spat the acrid grit from his mouth, sneezing to clear the residue that sneaked up his nose. The odour was strong and spicy, almost like myrrh, and he gagged a little, scrambling to get out of the lingering fumes. No sooner had he clambered from the hole than his boot toed the smooth, cylindrical shape of a bottle. With a melodic clink it struck the stones, telling him it was not empty. Elrond bent to pick it up and found it corked, though no sealed. Clearly, the party had already started.

Mayhap we are too late and it's over. He chuckled at this thought, knowing it to be ridiculous, and decided he was thirsty enough to sample the sylvan brew. The stopper came free easily and he sniffed the contents; a pleasingly fruity aroma met his nostrils and he took a tentative sip. It was sweet mead. Too sweet, but what can they know of making mead? Still, it is better than most I've tasted. Elrond grinned and took a larger swallow, wiping his mouth upon his tattered sleeve as he moved cautiously around the clearing to see what else he might discover. He wasn't sure why, but the darkness was less inky now and he hoped to pick up the trail of at least one of his missing friends. Carefully he inched along the perimeter of the hollow, seeking any sign of the Elves who had made the fire and then so hastily doused it.

That made him curious, for the light had become extremely bright so quickly and yet just as rapidly vanished. Ever the Lore-master in search of knowledge, Elrond returned to the pit and hopped back in, raising another cloud of the fine, powdery residue. Again he choked and sneezed and this time the particles made his eyes water, but he persevered. Taking a pinch between finger and thumb, he rubbed the ash into his skin, noting the texture to be smooth and slightly oily. He touched his tongue to the smeared film to determine what manner of wood or plant had been used to produce the pyrotechnic effect, detecting a distinctly metallic quality to the substance. His brows went up; this was a type of woodcraft he had never heard of and he wondered how it came to be known among the sylvans and for what purpose they employed it. He coughed again and hurried from the cloying motes, deciding he could ponder the question just as easily while looking for clues.

Yet there was nothing more to discover. Elrond circled the glade twice, remembering to check in the limbs above his head, hoping to spot a set of gleaming elven eyes, but there was nothing to note. He stood and tried to orient himself but couldn't determine from which direction he'd entered. He shrugged and set off at random, trusting his instincts to guide him correctly. Sooner or later, he would spot another fire, or a sylvan archer would leap from the trees to bar his way, or he would happen upon Erestor caught in another tangle of vines. His momentary panic had dissipated and left behind an almost exultant sense of certainty and fortitude. He remembered he was still holding the bottle and took another swallow from it, deciding the flavour was not bad at all, really. He began to hum as he tramped along, unconsciously sounding an old marching chant from his warrior days in Lindon.

Time passed; it had to do so for such is the way of things upon Arda, yet Elrond could not determine how much of it had transpired since he'd left the empty clearing. Had he gone along way or a short? He stopped humming, thinking he heard voices singing, and frowned when he realised it was only his echo. That meant he was close to the valley walls again. Could he have traversed the whole gorge already? Surely the Wood Elves would have stopped him before now, were that true. He was thirsty and took another drink, starting forward more slowly, watching the shadows intently for any sign of where he was or what direction he was heading. The trees began to thin and he hurried, breaking through the undergrowth into another glade. No, not another clearing, the same one. He'd made no progress at all, merely journeyed in a loop that deposited him back in the abandoned cove. With a weary sigh he kicked at the dirt, staying well back from the cold fire ring and its peculiar ashes.

Disconsolate and suddenly feeling tired, he sat down upon a fallen log to mull over his options. Another swallow from the bottle soothed his throat, in which the urge to cough was already growing. He gazed aimlessly around the space, trying to understand what was going on but failed to see anything that was even remotely helpful.

See? You're incapable of seeing, even in the full light of day. You've had a sylvan prince in your keeping for ten years and more. Did you ever mark his noble mien? Nay, you saw only a humble archer to keep for your pleasure and amusement.

Elrond startled and shook his head. "That isn't true. I didn't intend to use him." He swallowed hard and took another swig of the syrupy concoction, which for all its saccharine character possessed a substantial percentage of alcohol. Already he felt the pleasing hum as the potent drink worked into his thoughts. No answering retort sounded through his brain and he took that as a good sign, giving the bottle an appraising shake to judge the level of liquid left. Enough to drive away the ugly thoughts.

He'd not had to deal with this part of his mind since Celebrian left for Aman and preferred not to if at all possible. The voice was his but overprinted with the harsh inflections and abrasive observations particular to Maedhros. The eldest son of Feänaro was relentlessly critical and permitted no rationalising, no justifications. 'I am Maedhros son of Feänor son of Finwë. I have sworn the Oath and by it I am bound, no matter what my heart may wish. It was my choice to make and no other's. I shall suffer whatever ends that choice called forth.' No apologies, plenty of regrets, uncounted acts of bravery, kindness, and selfless compassion, through it all Maedhros would not permit anything or anyone to negate his responsibility. He expected his wards to learn and practice the same resolve.

Elrond shuddered; he truly despised remembering that cold, soulless stare the ancient Noldorin Prince was wont to train upon him whenever he'd done something foolish or wilful or spiteful. He sipped the mead, eager to promote the sort of inebriation that would fend off such unpleasant images,and licked his lips, noting how tart the aftertaste was once the sweetness faded. He sincerely hoped he would soon be found by the Wood Elves and wondered what was taking so long; they'd prepared new fires for Erestor and Glorfindel immediately.

They are testing you and they will learn the truth: you cannot stand alone. You always lean on the strength of others: your parents, your brother, your cousin, Lindir, Gil-galad, Glorfindel. Even Celebrian, you used her, too.

"No!" Elrond shouted hoarsely, leaping to his feet and turning as though the voice came from outside, taunting him from the trees instead of from inside his own mind. He stumbled over the log and almost fell over, sat down hard upon it to regain his equilibrium. Was it within or was it without? Why must he relive all this now? A mirthless chuckle rattled through his brain.

Maybe so that you can 'see' there is no shame in admitting you need Aearen. Maybe he can feel your worry and your dread and will comfort you.

Elrond blinked; the idea stunned him. Why shouldn't he openly rely on Legolas? They were mates; they had conceived a child together; their souls were so enmeshed neither could identify where one ended and the other began. He relaxed, tension draining out of him through the soles of his boots, and he smiled. Tentatively, he rose,swallowing another mouthful of mead, and took a step forward, then another, surer, followed by a third, more confident, and finally he was striding through darkness beneath the towering bolls with as much ease as anyone unused to such activity could do.

He felt renewed; there was nothing humiliating about owning his dependence upon Aearen. Their connection was vital, enriching. He had changed for the better since the unexpected bonding. They needed each other, loved each other. Legolas would never let anything happen to him, just as he would never permit any harm to befall his young mate.

Except you didn't protect him at all. You left him open to mockery and derision, lewd jests and lascivious offers; reviled, ridiculed, and rejected. You gave your subjects permission to abuse Aearen, even to the point of poison.

For the second time Elrond gasped, clutching at the nearest trunk to prevent collapsing upon the ground, breath rushing in and out, blood pounding through his veins, dizzy and nauseated. The dull thump as the bottle hit the dirt seemed muffled and far away. He squeezed his eyes shut, not that he could perceive much with them open, but suddenly he was seized with the irrational idea that Maedhros might suddenly pop out from behind the next tree and continue the derisive tongue-lashing in person. He didn't want to see those keen grey eyes boring into his with loathing and contempt, as surely they would for that accusation was nothing less than the bald, bare truth.

Nothing happened. How long he stood there he didn't know nor even pause to wonder. His eyes cracked open and eventually he started moving again, one leaden foot plopping down unsteadily after the other, guiding himself hand over hand, tree by tree through the woods. The bolls thinned and he came upon another clearing, this one filled with a faint and fragrant haze, the remnant of yet another fire. Why didn't I see it burning? He'd heard no song or music either but he couldn't focus on these external stimuli due to the encompassing sorrow generated by the mental ones. He staggered toward the centre of the glade and slumped in a heap atop a flat stone. Elrond's head began to hurt and he cradled it in his hands, loosing a low moan as he stewed over the past.

He had owned his fault before now and promised, within the unrelenting censure of his conscience and before his entire governing Assembly, to make amends and proclaim his heart's true feelings, but in his heart he knew that wasn't enough. That had been too easy, too pat. It was one thing to admit the crime while surrounded by friends and family and excused by Legolas' forgiving heart, and quite another to face the ugly facts here, alone in the dark, all the trappings of rank and power obscured, every hint of deference and respect absent. The trees cared not about his lofty status or his exalted lineage.

Legolas doesn't care about that either.

The blank, vacant blackness of the night swallowed him up until he could not see himself anymore. The loss of the internal image shocked and terrified him. Elrond scrambled up to his feet and took off running, hoping his instinct would guide him back to the Last Homely House. He needed to get back to the safety of his haven where he was revered, respected, loved. If he waited, a new image would move into his mind and he did not want to acknowledge that one. Quickly! Quickly! He must return to the place where he knew who he was before…

Before you have to see yourself as you really are?

That cold, brutal, insolent voice boomed through his mind, mocking laughter in it. His voice? Elros' voice? Maedhros? Lindir? Legolas?

"Aearen! Legolas, beloved, no, please don't," Elrond sobbed out, barely coherent incapable of surprise over the tears draining from his eyes. He only knew he never wanted Legolas to see what he really was: a selfish, miserable, hopeless failure. All the pomp and grandeur, the trimmings and trappings of wealth and culture, the ostentatious show of nobility and wisdom, the brazen and unrepentant bigotry and bias, all of it was just a huge, elaborately crafted distraction, a gaudy shield behind which he could hide the truth. Everything he'd ever done or hoped to do had gone horribly, irrevocably wrong.

His foot caught on something, a root or a rock he couldn't determine, and sent him pell mell into the dirt again. This time he stayed there, openly sobbing and twitching in misery, desperate to prevent hearing these things spoken, unable to avoid listening when they were.

If he hadn't convinced Elros to hide in the cave, they could've escaped. Would have escaped.

The tones were feminine now and this startled Elrond into abrupt silence, every nerve strained and every muscles taut. He lifted his head slowly, gazing about in wide-eyed dread. "Nana?" he whispered. No one answered and he exhaled a great breath of relief. If she answered, he would lose his mind; he was sure of it. He loved her but could not bear the thought of facing her again. What could he say? How could he explain?

If only he'd been stronger, Elros would have chosen the life of the First-born. Your constant need for reassurance wore him down. He was so busy comforting you that he never had means to express his own grief. He was fading; that's why he chose the Gift of Men.

The voice was masculine again; one he did not recognise. He was both grateful and terrified, for he couldn't remember the sound of his Adar's voice anymore and the idea that it might be Eärendil taking him to task so bitterly filled him with fear. At once the pair spoke together:

"We are not your parents, but are still much interested, and disappointed, in what you have become, Elrond Peredhel."

"It wasn't my fault; I was a child!" he wailed. "They left me, abandoned us. Why did they do that?" He lifted his head and stared about him in the dark but could see nothing to indicate the source of these voices. "Who are you?"

"Is this your answer to every error, that you were orphaned?"

"Abandoned, not orphaned! It isn't the same! Ask Erestor; his parents died but they died protecting him. At least he knows they loved him!" screeched Elrond, pounding the dirt with his balled fists.

Indeed, let us speak of Erestor. Your cousin denied his own name, electing to assume a cold and arrogant manner to hide his wounded heart. You never even asked him what happened to his parents, save once. In all these years, why have you never let him talk to you? You treat him like a servant; is it any wonder he bullies everyone else?

"Nay, nay, I don't want to wound him by making him remember. He does the same for me in never bringing up the death of Gil-galad."

Of course you disappointed Gil-galad, too. Standard-bearer? That was the best rank you could attain? Aye, for Elros was the brave and bold general, not you. It was Elros who became a mighty king and fathered a race of kingly men. Say what you will of Isildur, it was Elendil who faced down Sauron, not you.

"Spare me!" Elrond groaned aloud but the faceless voices would not oblige. They must be Valar, he decided, for who else could know his hidden flaws so well?

On and on the trial went, one event after another paraded through his memory along with acidic commentary filled with loathing and contempt. Elrond permitted Orcs to overrun Eriador and Eregion and if not for a fleet of Numenoreans Sauron's forces would have hunted them all down to the very last Elf and Elf-friend. The Last Alliance? Where was his skill in diplomacy and state-craft then? Arrogant pride had made him balk at Oropher's demands. In retrospect, was it truly so terrible for the Sindarin King to expect to command his own people in battle? Would it have hurt to acknowledge him as Gil-galad's equal along with Amroth and Celeborn? How many hundreds had died because of that failure? Of course, now he knew that was not the last injury: any silvan he'd treated for poison was made sterile by his cures.

Those were not even the worst of his failings. What became of Celebrian lay at his door, also. What was he doing that was so important he failed to acknowledge her plans to go forth? No one should travel unprotected in such dangerous times. After allowing that, he permitted his sons - her sons! - to ride out and find her. What kind of weak and useless soul could condone such horror, that Elladan should have to see first what had happened to her, that she should suffer the shame of his knowing? When he had ridden through the gates bearing her broken body, Elrohir beside him, even then it was not Elrond who had moved to take so horrendous a burden from his shoulders. No, the one she loved had done so, weeping and cursing together, cursing not Sauron but Elrond. Your exalted ability for healing didn't save her. But for his love and devotion, your children's mother would have perished.

It was no surprise he would treat Legolas so poorly. No one would expect anything else but another failure. Offer you something good and pure and you manage to drop it right in the nearest pile of shit. His actions, and glaring omissions, regarding Legolas were examined in excruciating detail, not a single derogatory remark left out, every time he'd denied the simple, and infrequent, requests his mate had made meticulously analysed. He found himself rambling aloud his fear of losing Aearen to his sons, his dread that Legolas would prefer them because of the very facts being reviewed. The faceless, houseless spirits grilled him relentlessly about the twins and their part in the drama and for a few terrifying moments Elrond feared he was about to be destroyed utterly, so tangible was their wrath.

Elrond had stopped crying long ago, hours ago, days ago, years ago, centuries and Ages of time ago; who could judge accurately in such a Hell as this? He sat on the ground, knees to chest, forehead to knees, arms locked around his legs to hold them fast, rocking slowly to and fro as he relived each shameful incident from his past. An occasional shudder jolted him in place of the noisy sobs to which he'd first relented. Finally here he was in the dirt where he belonged, Elrond of Imladris, Elrond the lesser son of Eärendil, Elrond the disappointment, alone.

Sooner or later, Legolas would find him and then he would know the truth. What would he do then? Legolas would be filled with loathing and disgust. He would wish he'd never conceived a son with so poor an example of Elven dignity and honour. Why would he want such a person for Tinu Mín's father? Elrond knew he couldn't live without Aearen and he loved Tinu Mín almost as fiercely as he loved Legolas. He would fade or sail; in either case he would have failed yet again, breaking a solemn vow to stay until Sauron was defeated and his promise to never leave Legolas' side.

Legolas does not care about any of this.

"That's only because he doesn't really know. Deep in his heart, he believes I am noble and good, wise and brave. The truth will turn his heart from me and I will lose him. I will lose them both."

"You are wrong. He sees you, Elrond Peredhel. He has no choice. Foolish Elf Lord, half of the light in his soul arises in you. Possessing your soul, being possessed by your soul, no other knows you better, save Eru," said the female.

"If that is so, how can he love me? Is it all in my mind? Is this his revenge? He must hate me indeed."

"How can you have Legolas in your thoughts alongside the concept of hatred? That is an abomination; he is incapable of that emotion," the male chastised harshly.

"Do you love him so much as this, that your reason lies broken under the weight of your fear?"

"I love him, nothing more do I know for certainty. What good is reason? Reason has failed me every time. Does he…Nay, how can he. Yet tell me, for you must know; does he love me?"

"Legolas loves you, Elrond Peredhel, and maybe it is not so hard, now, for us to understand why."

"Oh, he loves me!" He almost choked on the flood of relief that swamped his heart, but quickly checked it. "Nay! Will he survive the hurt the truth must cause him? Can you tell him I didn't want him to know; I didn't want to disappoint him; didn't mean to lie. I…I liked being loved by him. I loved being loved by him. I was selfish." The tears were back but they were quiet ones now.

"Yes, you were selfish, but Legolas does not care about that either. All these things you call truth, these are things you must forget. You must burn them from your soul so that Legolas will see only one truth reflected back to him."

"What truth is bearable? There is only shame and remorse to share with him."

"Did I not say that you would need to find a means to let go of your regrets? This does not serve Legolas. The truth he needs to see in you is the love you hold in your heart for him. He is your salvation, Elrond Peredhel, and you must permit him to know this."

"I want to. How do I do that?"

"You will find the way."

"Love will guide you, but you must listen to Legolas' soul. He still has one, you know, distinct and unique from yours."

"I know this."

"Nay, you keep thinking you will remake him into something more like you. Elrond Perfected, the way you wish to be. This is the burden you have placed upon him."

"No."

"Yes. You ask his soul, torn and damaged almost beyond repair, to reflect back the image you require."

Elrond groaned miserably; it was true. A huge sigh left him and he began rocking again.

"Do you even know why he loves you?"

"Or do you imagine he has no control over that, being sylvan?"

"I assure you, it was his decision to love instead of grieve, to live instead of fade."

"Perhaps you should ask him why."

"Galbreth. It was all for Galbreth," whined Elrond bitterly as fresh tears overflowed.

"Elbereth! He is quite intractable, isn't he?"

"Annoyingly so. Galbreth was only part of it and not the main part of it. If you must know, Legolas used Galbreth to justify his feelings for you. He's very young, you see, and though he thought he knew everything about everything, his understanding is only 76 summers old."

"What are you trying to tell me? Please, does he love me or not?"

"We have already answered that. If you want to understand why he loves you and what he did to make it acceptable, in his own mind, to love you then you will need to listen to him."

"Enough. Rest. There is a celebration planned in your honour and thus we cannot start it without you."

"When you awaken, Legolas will be here and Elril will guide to the place of the feast."

In the passing of three heartbeats, Elrond was deep in a slumber such as he had not enjoyed since childhood. It was true sleep, free of dreams and doubts, images and thoughts. Of course, he was not really lost in the rocky highlands of Imladris, cast down in the dirt amid the towering firs and oaks. He was stretched out on a comfortable pallet in a sumptuous pavilion, cosseted in silk and resting of eiderdown. Fresh bows of spruce and pine carpeted the floor and formed the roof, softened the rugged terrain, lending a refreshing and restful scent to the space. From the centre pole that upheld the structure a single lantern hung and from it a single flame burned low and gave a soft, golden light to the air. Above the woven roof of evergreens, the trees swayed and sighed in the breeze, adding their lulling refrain to the pleasant melody of sylvan voices raised in song in the branches all around. Thranduil and Rhûn'waew rose and stretched, then reached for and embraced one another. Together they exited the little hut.

"You were hard on him," remarked Thranduil, eyeing his wife carefully. Of all the folk in her lineage he had been privileged to know, she was the most fey, the most incomprehensible. He waited patiently to learn what her reply would be and grinned reflexively in answer to the smile that flashed through her eyes. Then the mirth left her and only that distant power shone through, a glimpse of puissance, as if she was connected in some direct way to Melian, or to Melian's soul, or to the Music that was Melian's soul.

"It is my soul you see, not hers," she rebuked gently, proudly. "My Music that makes Greenwood sing and the Wood Elves dance. Yes, I was hard on him. He was harder on Iest Mín. Legolas is my son and my son deserves to be seen, understood, accepted, and loved by the mate he has chosen. I will suffer no less. Elrond will manage this or I will sever their bond and join our child solely to the twins."

To this Thranduil gave no argument; indeed, he offered her a deep and respectful bow.

TBC

~ ~ Glossary ~ ~

Aldobol Faer Charn: Uncovering a Wounded Spirit

Merith Di'ylf (Fêtes Beneath the Branches)

Manadh Diorion: Ultimate Fate of Dior's Sons

Ernil Daur: Forest Prince

Elril: Bright Star

Iest Mín: Our Wish - pet name for Legolas used by his parents.

Rhûn'waew: East Wind

Aras: deer, stag

Fennas: Doorway

Tinu Mín: our little star

NOTE: Well, I hope this wasn't entirely confusing. Probably not that chapter you were all expecting to read. I wanted very much to replay that scene from the Hobbit in which the Dwarves are captured one by one. Don't worry, nothing unpleasant as being stuffed in a sack has befallen Lindir, Erestor, or Glorfindel. We'll find out what happened to them later when we all get to attend the feast. The big party is pretty important, though none of the Imladrian citizens know this, not even Lindir who has learned much nor Erestor who has been forced into assisting Thranduil's plots and plans.

The silliness over names was of course necessary to prompt Elrond to bring it up with Legolas. That will happen later on; we've a bonding ceremony to get through first.

I hope it was clear that Elrond was rather heavily, and sneakily, drugged and that the mysterious interviewers were Thranduil and Rhûn'waew. The intoxicating and psychoactive compounds were of course in the fire and in the drink so conveniently left for him to find. So, what seemed to Elrond like voices from the past or voices of the Valar were in fact real voices, but his perception was radically altered by the drugs. The symptoms are fairly common to any number of psychoactive substances: dilation of pupils making his sight seem clearer in the dark; altered sense of time and space, hallucinations (which are not always visual but can be auditory); a sense of elation alternating with agitation and paranoia, tiredness and finally sleep.

Can we blame Legolas' parents? I can't, though it was surely gruelling for Elrond to have to bare his soul so completely. In reality, they have done him a great service, albeit solely for the benefit of their son and nascent grandson. They want Elrond to become a good mate for Legolas and forcing him to face all his demons in one night might seem extreme, but they are about to see their Iest Mín wedded to this ancient Lord. Legolas will only grow more dependent upon Elrond as the pregnancy progresses and Thranduil and Rhûn'waew want him to feel safe, secure, and loved. I have just been feeling that Elrond really got off easy. True, the worried parents do not want to make things worse for Legolas but he has really been treated badly, from their point of view.

If you were surprised that I let Elrond himself spill the beans about the twins, well what can I say? They are brave and I'm sure they would have come forward eventually, but I think it would be quite daunting to face Thranduil and tell all, then proclaim themselves converted and Legolas' staunchest supporters. We see in Rhûn'waew's closing remark that she realises the bond between her son and the twins is growing stronger, and like any good mother who wants the best for her child, she views this as an advantage. There is now an alternative should Elrond fail to meet her expectations. Can she really divide two souls so completely entwined as Legolas and Elrond's? She certainly seems to think so and her husband obviously believes she is rather more powerful than the average Wood Elf. You will just have to wait and see what she decides to do.

Now, what do you suppose Legolas' reaction to this little ploy of his parents will be? I am thinking he will not be pleased and perhaps he might have a few choice words for his well-meaning Nana and Ada. Fireworks ahead, of more than one kind. :)

Thank you to everyone who gave me feedback on the last chapter. It was very helpful and much appreciated! As always, my deepest thanks to one and all still reading and enjoying the story!

© 008/12/2008 Ellen Robey
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Aearlinn

Aearlinn - Aldobol Faer Charn

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Late in the Night ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

~ ~ Glossary ~ ~